Monster, Murderer, Fiend
by Fuujin Kishukaze
Summary: Arvid's last thought before he commits suicide; rated PG-13 for character suicide


Author's Notes: I'm watching 'Swing Kids' in my English class this week, and we get to the part where Arvid dies. Now, he's my fave character, and I'm distressed after he dies... so I get inspired to write. And this pops out. Read, review, and enjoy. I know I had fun writing it.  
  
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Monster. Murderer. Fiend.   
  
The words are repeating in my head like a mantra. Or like the lyrics to a Benny Goodman song. They remind me that although I'm a German, and although I never joined the H.J - never became a murder myself - that there's still blood on my hands. I'm still guilty for not lifting a finger. And I can't stand it any longer. I can't let the blood of other innocent human beings be on my conscious because I didn't do anything to help them. Because I couldn't do anything to help them. After all, what could a simple cripple do against the entire Nazi force? Nothing, and it's that kind of thinking that makes me hardly able to live with myself.  
  
Monster. Murderer. Fiend.   
  
It needs to end now.  
  
And so before I know it I've got a pen in my hand. My parents are dead... they have been since shortly after my 16 birthday. I've been able to live by myself though, because the courts allowed it... because I convinced them I could take care of myself. And I could. Playing guitar has always kept me well enough funded to pay for my apartment and to buy my swing records. The government saw that, and let me live alone... so long as they could check up on me every couple of months. And the check-ups ended about half a year ago. The German government couldn't be concerned with a cripple any longer... and besides, they couldn't afford it. The World War took care of that. So, the note isn't for my parents.   
  
It's for Peter - the only person who ever cared about me in this miserable life. Even after he became a H.J., he was still the same old Peter under that uniform. So he deserves to know why it's come to this. I can't say the same for Thomas. Now I'm writing a note, my hands shaking like hell. I can't say I'm not afraid of the only way out... but I can't let myself stay a murderer anymore.  
  
Peter -  
If you're reading this, I'm gone. I can't stand living like this anymore. I can't stand knowing that I'm no better than one of the Nazis. And so I write this as an apology. I know you were trying... trying not to buy into their bullshit... trying to be Nazi by day and Swing Kid by night, and for that I respect you. You were my friend when Thomas stopped being one. And in being a friend you'll have to believe me when I say I'm sorry.  
Swing heil -  
Arvid  
  
Now I look over the note feeling somewhat stupid. I've always been the overemotional one in Peter and my little circle of friends, and I couldn't even write a suicide letter without sounding like a sap. Though I'm not sure I care. I said what I meant, and if Peter thinks less of my memory for it so be it... but I don't think my one true friend would do that. And if he does, that's his loss not mine.  
  
I set the letter down, stumble over to my extensive collection, and immediately bitter thoughts of earlier that night surface. Thomas told me I had corrupted my mind by listening to one of the Kings of Swing, Benny Goodman, just because he was a Jew. A Jew but a person, Thomas... and to prove my resolve to escape my monstrous existence, I reach for a Benny Goodman album - Alexander's Ragtime Band... a classic. Smiling faintly, I remove it from its jacket and smash it mercilessly on the countertop. Sorry Benny man, but it's for a good cause.  
  
Now I'm hobbling in the direction of my bed. I shove my zoot suit from the performance earlier into a little bag and stuff it under my bed quickly. My guitar follows moments afterwards. And then I move towards the bathroom.   
  
Turning the tap on, I stuff the stopper in the drain and let it fill up. When I'm satisfied at the water's level, I turn it off and pull the cord that holds the robe I'm dressed in shut. It falls to the floor easily, and I get into the bathtub, record clutched tightly in my hand. For a moment, I do nothing, letting the water warm me and then I press the jagged edge of my beloved Swing record to my wrist. "Es tut mir leid, Peter." And then I draw the record across my vein, and feel my life slip away.  
  
Monster. Murderer. Fiend.   
  
No more. 


End file.
